


Untitled Bathtub Fluff

by spiderweb_wine



Series: That Bright Tether [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 08:39:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderweb_wine/pseuds/spiderweb_wine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turns out not to be quite that simple, of course, because when Arthur sits up he lists sideways, slowly, into Eames. “Oops,” Eames says, catching him, and the sound Arthur makes would probably be a laugh under other circumstances. He’s rubbish at standing up, too, just keeps going when hauled up, so Eames gets a sloppy hug and an armful of un-co-ordinated Arthur. It almost hurts, knowing he was the one to render Arthur too boneless to stand. There are lips against his chest, arms around his neck. He sweeps Arthur up into his arms like a new bride and carries him into the bathroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Bathtub Fluff

**Author's Note:**

> Originall written for five_ht's inspiring and fabulous sub!Arthur post on LJ, in a million tiny comment-box pieces, posted with fewer typos in one edited piece later on my LJ (same username), and now crossposted to here. 
> 
> The bathtub scene was the first part to fall into my head and beg to be written. And then it turned out to be longer than that.

They’re done the dream heist, they have the information their employer wanted. Now they’re just counting the days to the end of the job. Three days, their employer had said. Wait to see if the job worked properly.

They’re professionals. They know it worked. Now they’re stuck in the high-rent district of Toronto, doing stupidly dangerous surveillance on a mark who knows most of their faces. Usually, Eames would say Fuck It and go anyway, get on a plane and be safely and anonymously gone. But when the employer is an unbalanced eccentric who is voluntarily paying them three times their usual going price (nothing to sneeze at), they do what he says.

Three days is a long time to people of their profession’s activity level and, more importantly, paranoia level. Three days of bloody stupid useless risk is more than long enough to go batshit insane, but it’s Arthur who’s the worst. He’s getting twitchier by the hour until Eames can’t stand it anymore. They’re working out of a hotel penthouse suite, though. There’s no room for anything private.

“Anyone for chai?” Alex asks, on the last morning, and the rest of the team leaps up with the air of people desperate for any diversion. Eames doesn’t remind them they’re not supposed to show their faces on the street in groups. He seizes his chance.

Thirty seconds after the door closes behind everyone else, Arthur stomps past Eames’ chair. He’s been wearing a path in the pile carpeting since last night, but this time Eames stands, blocks Arthur’s pacing.

“Get out of my -- ” Arthur has time to say before his back is against the wall and Eames’ arm is across his trachea. “Eames!” Arthur snarls, choked-off and furious. Eames keeps his arm hard across Arthur’s throat and the rest of himself out the way of Arthur’s knees and elbows. Arthur tends to fight this kind of thing, even when he knows what Eames is doing, let alone when his train of thought is disrupted without warning. “Let me go!” He shoves, hard.

“No,” Eames says, shoving back. “You’re driving me crazy. You’re driving everyone crazy. We have twelve more hours on this job. I need you to calm the fuck down.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Arthur says, busily shoving his elbow into Eames’ ribs. “Unlike some of us, I have things to do!”

“You’re wound tighter than garrotte wire,” Eames says, mouth dangerously close to Arthur’s ear despite the bruises he’ll have on those ribs soon. “It’s distracting. Fortunately for you, I know what to do.” The words are cheesy but he really, really doesn’t care. Arthur’s detail oriented. “First I’ll tie your hands so you can’t push me off and then I’ll mark you darling, hickeys all over your throat where everyone can see, they’ll all know…”

That’s as far as he gets before Arthur twists and strikes and squirms away, and there’s a delightful bit of rolling around on the carpet before Eames can get him pinned again. “…push you down, my hands in your hair, you know I love your hair long like this,” he keeps going until Arthur headbutts him in the chin and scrambles away.

Eames gets one more sentence in the next time, “…be so sweet for me, be my good boy, bet you can take my whole - -,” and a nice bruise to the other side of his ribs, and one more sentence the time after that, giving Arthur specifics since he likes them so much.

The fifth time, the knee jerk is slower than it should be, and out of line from Eames’ groin, and Eames just grins and keeps muttering sweet filth until Arthur turns his face to the side and says, “Christ, Eames, not here.”

If Eames thought they had three more minutes, he’d push a little harder and ask for the ‘please’ that Arthur hasn’t yet said. They don’t have time. He runs his thumb over the rapid beat of Arthur’s pulse just above his watch strap. “Later,” he says. “When we’re done. I’ve a rented flat. Twelve hours to the end of this job, yeah? Retain civility for the rest of today, and we’ll go there after.”

Arthur huffs a breath out between his teeth. “I don’t suffer incompetence well.”

Eames knows. He wants to round up and hurt everyone who hasn’t noticed that Arthur is the first in every morning and the last to leave, everyone who has ignored Arthur’s quiet work in favour of cooing over their architect’s latest overblown monstrosity, everyone who has pushed aside Arthur’s immaculate reports and asked him to go get coffee for them, everyone who has underestimated his lethal abilities in the clusterfuck this job has turned out to be. “I know.”

It’s too early in the game to straighten Arthur’s cuffs for him before the others return. He has to watch Arthur do that himself.

*

~later~

*

Eames rolls off of Arthur as soon as he can think in coherent words again, not wanting to impede Arthur’s oxygen intake, but Arthur merely huffs and follows. He plasters himself to Eames’ side, sweat and come and more sweat and more come gluing them together. Well fine, if that’s what he wants. Eames drifts.

*

When Eames comes aware again, Arthur’s mostly on top of him, still dead to the world, and they are both stickier than Eames wants to contemplate while coherent enough to form complete sentences. “Shower,” he says, and pokes Arthur in the side. Arthur shifts, but not away. He settles himself more squarely over Eames’ chest, and Eames is starting to feel the work his diaphragm is doing, breathing around that. Arthur is slim but not slight, and Eames has already wrestled with him a fair amount this evening. Though it’s probably morning by now. He wasn’t exactly looking at the clock while letting Arthur melt his brain into incoherent goo. “Arthur, we need a shower,” he insists.

Arthur’s breath is hot and damp over Eames’ collarbone. “No,” he says, blurry. “No, keep going, ‘m good.”

Eames grins big and wide and filthy at the ceiling of his bedroom. There’s no-one to see it, he wouldn’t want there to be, but sometimes, sometimes when he gets it right, his life is perfect. “You are good,” he says, “you were perfect, love, but now we’re all sticky and we need hot water and soap.”

Arthur rubs his cheek against Eames’ collarbone and says, “…Hmmm’kay.”

*

It turns out not to be quite that simple, of course, because when Arthur sits up he lists sideways, slowly, into Eames. “Oops,” Eames says, catching him, and the sound Arthur makes would probably be a laugh under other circumstances. He’s rubbish at standing up, too, just keeps going when hauled up, so Eames gets a sloppy hug and an armful of un-co-ordinated Arthur. It almost hurts, knowing he was the one to render Arthur too boneless to stand. There are lips against his chest, arms around his neck. He sweeps Arthur up into his arms like a new bride and carries him into the bathroom.

*

Arthur flails a bit when Eames puts him in the bathtub, clinging. “Arthur!” Eames says, and when that doesn’t work he repeats it while pressing on the half-circle of fingerprint bruises on Arthur’s hip. They’re pretty, a matched set on each side, just starting to shade purplish-red. A nice souvenir of Arthur’s inability to stay still. He fits his hand back over them and presses hard enough to make them bloom brighter in the wake of his fingers, pushes his thumbnail against the unbroken skin.

Arthur’s eyes come open on a gasp. “Mr. Eames?”

Eames doesn’t insist on titles when they do this. ‘Master’ doesn’t sit well in anyone’s mouth, and reminds him of the gnarled old gardener on his long-dead grandfather’s estate back home. ‘Sir’ was his father. Besides, he has never met anyone who can make ‘Mr. Eames’ sound more like ‘Sir’ than Arthur can. Eames says, “When my boy’s too fucked out to stand up for the shower, he has to be bathed instead.”

Just like that, Arthur’s pliancy is gone. “I’m sorry!” he says, clinging tighter, fingers scrabbling at the back of Eames’ neck. “Sorry, Mr. Eames, I’m so--”

Eames pulls back to the point that he can look Arthur in the eye. “Hey, hey, none of that. Did I mean it as a bad thing?”

Arthur thinks about it, face scrunched up between devastation and reflection, taking the question seriously. When he looks up, Eames smiles, letting him see how satisfied it is, how possessive. Mine, he thinks. Mine, mine, mine.

“…Oh,” Arthur says. “Oh. Okay.”

*

Eames lets go of him and Arthur flails around a little more. Eames has to curl his hands around the built-in soap dish and the edge of the tub before he’ll stop trying to cling. “Here, hold on, right?” Arthur sighs like it’s the worst thing that’s happened today, but he does it without further complaint and Eames turns on the water and goes to find extra towels and a cup to pour from.

*

Arthur’s head is bent, the back of his neck a taught line. He makes a startled sound when Eames settles behind him in the bathtub. Eames doesn’t mind. (He doesn’t insist on silence when they do this, mostly because the progression is so lovely – from Arthur struggling and spitting and cursing him in every language he knows (considerable); to Arthur gagged and furious, yelling unintelligible noises through a mouthful of cloth; to Arthur gagged and breathless, pliant and moaning and finally, finally giving himself over to sensation; to Arthur’s soft litany of ‘Eames’ and ‘please’ after Eames takes the gag out and says, ‘Let me hear you now, pet.’ Arthur doesn’t even move his hands to help with the knot, though he could, they’re not tied. He could have safed out by sign language or by dropping the little brass bell he’s clutching, but he hasn’t, he doesn’t. ‘Eames,’ he says when his mouth is free, like he doesn’t know any other words. It punches the breath out of Eames’ own lungs and he pulls Arthur closer, runs his hands all over, tells him with touch and voice how wonderful he is, before he pours more lube than is strictly necessary over his fingers and starts opening Arthur up. The noises Arthur makes are more delicious than silence.)

“Shhh,” Eames says now, more to be soothing than as any desire for silence. “You’re alright.”

Arthur nods, short and sharp. Eames gets the soap and starts in on the pale shoulders in front of him. He knows all of Arthur’s moles by now, and the knife scar across the left bicep, and the long-healed bullet scar under the ribs, low on the right side. Over top of it all are the marks Eames left there himself tonight with the thin leather of his own belt, criss-cross patterns of desire, red and fresh. They run from the curve of his shoulders to the swell of his arse, overlapping all the way down, because Arthur didn’t give in until his whole back was patterned with strikes. Some of them will bruise soon. The marking is Arthur’s kink, not Eames’, so Eames can feel a little bad about the few that broke skin over the shoulders. Later, when Arthur’s cleaned and dried off, he’ll put antiseptic on them. Still, they have to hurt, so he moves carefully. After a minute, Arthur sighs and goes pliant again. Eames hums his approval, rinsing off his shoulders and back.

Another minute later, Arthur moves, slow like he’s not sure he’s allowed to and wants to give Eames time to correct him. He uncurls his hands from where Eames had placed them on the edge and wraps them carefully over Eames’ knee on the right side, and, where Eames has his own healed scars on the left knee, over the long bone of his shin. His fingers are exquisite, and only just tight enough not to tickle. Eames has seen those same hands break necks, discharge lethal firearms, cut throats. He reaches down and fits his own hands over Arthur’s, tightening his fingers. Arthur drops his head a little more and Eames has to, just has to, kiss the join of neck and shoulder.

He soaps all of Arthur with the same quick, light touch as his back required, because neither of them are up for another round right now, and moves on to his hair. Wet, Arthur’s hair is longer than it looks when slicked back.

“Good,” Eames says, pouring water over Arthur’s head to wash out the shampoo. Arthur doesn’t twitch, though the water skims by close to his open eyes, head tipped back now to watch Eames. “So good for me, Arthur.”

“Yeah?” Arthur smiles, the loose fuzzy smile that he might keep for days if Eames can just play all his cards right. “Kiss me, then.”

Eames does.

*

Arthur’s ‘I trust you not to pour soap in my eyes because the sun shines out of your arse’ face is surprisingly similar to the faces of Eames’ baby sisters after their mam left. Eames at sixteen had perfected the art of keeping soap off Madeleine’s slippery face with one hand and pouring with the other while she chattered about ladybirds or dancing or whatever else it was three-year-olds discussed in made-up languages. Bath night fell to Eames, as had new shoes and making sure everyone ate breakfast and checking that Da hadn’t left broken glass on the floor again and, later, school lunches and pocket money and all those other things Da wouldn’t shift himself to do through the alcoholic haze.

The criminal life in exchange for large sums of money had been an easy choice when faced with Thomas’s football supplies and communion dresses for the twins, and Isabelle’s silent worry. He’d gotten all three of them safely away as soon as he could, into the best private boarding schools he couldn’t afford. The girls would be alright, they had each other, and Thomas was a tough little bugger. Eames had paid the school fees by whatever means necessary. The lucrative secret frontier of criminal dreamsharing had been a revelation. He’d never looked back, though he’d last seen his sisters on a fake passport and a four-hour layover in Wales. Madeleine had flung herself on him with complete disregard for her very fancy frock, and Isabelle, Isabelle had been smiling.

They’re all nearly done now, all graduating uni with honours, whatever Eames had given up more than repaid. The knowledge, recurring and maddening and bloody useless, that if he’d known then what he knows now about life and death and karma he would simply have destroyed his father when the abuse started and been done with it, doesn’t help. It’s not as though he’s ignorant of where he got his protective streak, but now really isn’t the best time. He wraps his arms around Arthur’s bruised shoulders, rides out the guilty flashback with his forehead pressed to the back of Arthur’s neck. Arthur is warm and breathing and safe, and so are Tom and Isabelle and Maddie. He holds on.

After a moment, Arthur tightens his fingers and holds on right back.

*

“How did I get here?” Arthur asks, sounding fuzzy. He doesn’t sound worried, and hasn’t moved from the loose curl he fell into after Eames dried him off and dumped him back onto the bed, but given their professions, Eames still has to lean over to see his face, to make sure he doesn’t have to ask, ‘Do you need your totem?’ Arthur’s face is smooth, uncreased.

“We were on the Barcelona job,” he says instead. “Our second job together, up in the gods in that horrible stadium, remember? It was bloody hot, and you wore that aubergine shirt. You finally opened two buttons after three hours of sweating bollocks. Then the mark started staring. As if he had the right to look. That was the start, when I wanted to kill him right there and Ryland hadn’t even gotten his secrets yet.”

“That - -” Arthur makes a noise that is definitely a giggle, shallow under the pressure of Eames’ arm. “That was a long time ago.”

Eames props his chin over Arthur’s shoulder. “Yes, love, it was. Not going anywhere, alright? Go to sleep.”

*

Eames is roused the next morning by the cruel shrill of his alarm. Why did he set the damn thing again? He can’t remember. There’s the smell of toast and he’s alone in the bed. He shouldn’t be alone. Arthur should be here, not working. Eames frowns at the empty pillows and flings off the blankets just as, in the kitchen, the kettle starts to shriek.

Arthur’s standing in the kitchen, making tea the way he’s supposed to. Eames stops in the doorway, footsteps hidden under the kettle’s whistle. Arthur dumps out the warming water, adds loose tea and fresh boiling water. It warms Eames’ heart. The part that takes his breath away is Arthur’s bespoke brown wool trousers. He wasn’t wearing those yesterday, must have packed them special. He’s left the snaps undone so they hang just an inch lower on his hips than they were tailored for, so as to touch fewer of the still-red marks across his back. The cross-hatch of red welts looks painful, and Arthur moves with languid economy, careful. It intensifies his natural grace. The trousers hug his arse and accentuate the welts above it, and Eames has to reach down and adjust the old jeans he’d found to put on.

The bread sits open by the toaster. Arthur turns from the counter holding the jar of honey in one hand and raspberry preserves in the other. His face is still sleep-creased and his hair points in five directions. “Good morning!” he says, smiling, the instant he sees Eames, and figuring out how he’s so awake this early is hurting Eames brain, crowding out the small part of his mind that is proud Arthur’s guard was down enough not to have heard him earlier, down enough let someone stand behind him and not turn around at the sound of footsteps with knife in hand. Except that the smile drops right off his face a moment later. He stops halfway across the kitchen. His gaze drops to the floor, and he wavers there as though his knees might not hold him up.

Eames realizes that he’s been scowling since that damn alarm went off, that he’s still scowling now. He wipes his face clean, takes two long steps across the linoleum and catches Arthur before he sinks to his knees on the floor. “Good morning,” he says. “I’m not mad at you, Arthur.”

Arthur nods, face turned away into Eames’ shoulder. Then he shakes his head. “What…” he starts, cuts himself off.

Eames backs Arthur into the edge of the counter, takes the jars from his unresisting fingers. He puts them safely down and presses back enough that the edge must be biting into Arthur’s back. “I’m not mad at you,” he repeats. “I should have turned off the blasted alarm, and then we could still be asleep. Don’t know about you, but it was my personal aspiration to sleep for a week.”

Against his chest, Arthur relaxes minutely. The brings his arms up around Eames’ waist, careful like it might be wrong. “Sleep deprivation is evil,” he agrees.

“And you’re out here being remarkably productive instead of playing slugabed with me, pet. It’s enough to make anyone frown. In a general way.”

Arthur nods. “Too used to waking up early,” he says into Eames’ shirtfront. “Couldn’t stay asleep.”

“Mmm. Is there tea now? I can forgive a lot of a man if he makes me tea.” Eames squeezes Arthur lightly and lets go.

“There is,” Arthur says, voice mostly breath, but when Eames steps back he follows. “Mr. Eames? I can wake you up.”

“Breakfast first,” Eames says, though it’s not like his dick isn’t interested. That ship sailed with the cut of fine wool trousers.

“It’ll feel good,” Arthur wheedles. He puts his hands on Eames’ waistband, starting to move now with a touch of the precise intent that nails Eames in the gut every time they’re on a job together.

Eames wraps his arms around Arthur and turns him bodily towards the toaster, the waiting bread. “Breakfast first.” Because his blood sugar must be pretty low, it’s the only explanation for the lightness in his head, and Arthur’s must be worse.

*

They doctor their toasts and tea in the kitchen and then Eames tugs Arthur out into the main room, drops into his favourite squashy chair, and pulls Arthur down on top.

Eames does manage to get some breakfast in both of them before he lets the situation devolve as it was always going to anyway. Pretty boy in his lap, what do you expect?

*  
*

~ later ~

*

Eames grips Arthur by the hips, fingers sliding on soft brown wool, thrusts his hips up, drags Arthur down. The friction is delicious, has been for some minutes now, and his jeans are way too tight. He could come from this, he thinks, cock trapped in rough denim, Arthur a sweet hot weight in his lap. The thought is a whiplash of heat, and oh, he’s let this go longer than he should have.

Arthur moves with it for a while, eyes closed. He puts his head back, baring his throat, his back a sinuous curve under Eames’ hands. Eames presses on some of the welts from last night, over Arthur’s ribs, too hot now to be careful or gentle. Arthur’s eyes come open. “Eames,” he gasps.

“Yes?” Eames says, then looks at the flush up Arthur’s chest, the quick heave of his breathing. His grip has gone tight, tight on Eames’ shoulders. Oh. Oh. He’s been good, pliant, though his back has to hurt. He’s even remembering to ask permission. “Yes,” Eames repeats, “Arthur, yes, you can, for me-” but Arthur shakes his head. The tendons in his neck stand out.

“No,” he breathes, sharp. “I --”

“No?” Eames hauls Arthur down, grinds up sweet and rough and so close, so close.

Arthur groans like it’s dragged out of him with a boathook. “No, I, these pants cost, let me take them off, please…”

“You can’t come in your trousers?” Eames probes, because really, only Arthur.

“No, Mr. Eames, please --,”

“You decided to forego pants this morning?”

“Underwear?” Arthur translates. “Couldn’t find them.”

Eames grins, then, because he hid them himself for just this moment. He can see the thick line of Arthur’s cock, gorgeously outlined by soft wool. He pets it a little and Arthur jerks, breathes. “You have a choice here, love. You can come right here, in your expensive trousers. Or, you can wait, and I’ll suck you later if you’re good.”

Arthur glares even as he grinds into Eames, unable to hold still. Eames tightens his grip, watches Arthur bite his lip. Another time, he’ll make Arthur come in his trousers, make him mark himself, tell him everyone can see… he has a sudden mental image of what Arthur would look like if he let them both go right now. It would be unbearably hot to let Arthur’s cock out of those ridiculous trousers, let Arthur fumble him out of his jeans. He’d fist them both together, tight and a little too rough, because his co-ordination’s shot all to hell right now, and it would be so good. It wouldn’t take long, not wound tight as Arthur is. He would let go the orgasm he can feel building at the base of his spine, tell Arthur yes, okay, come now, good boy, and watch him tip over the edge. He’d even catch it so that come wouldn’t fall on Arthur’s beloved trousers. Then he’d feed it all back to Arthur, watch his tongue - -

Eames yanks himself out of the vision, because if he doesn’t he’s going to come right now, oh, god.

“Fuck,” Arthur mutters, restless in Eames’ lap. “Oh, fuck.”

He looks a little glazed, rocking himself roughly against Eames in small quick motions as though compelled.

Eames has to repeat the choice, adding, “Decide now, Arthur,” breathless himself, closer than he thought.

“Fuck you,” Arthur pants. “That’s no choice at all!”

“Your choice,” Eames says. “Your trousers, my mouth… you like my mouth…” and then suddenly he has no more breath for words because he’s coming in his jeans so hard he can’t see. It’s perfect.

When he blinks his eyes open again through the aftershocks, it’s to Arthur saying, “Fuck, can’t, can’t - - Eames, fuck,” between breaths like he doesn’t know any other words. He has one hand bruise-tight on Eames’ shoulder and the other around his cock through those trousers.

Eames breathes deep, pulls himself together quickly because this is delicious but not about him. “Arthur,” he says, as gentle as he can and still get through. “Arthur.”

Arthur rocks down again, again, scrunches his face up some more, gulps air. “…Eames.”

“Arthur, do you need some help?” Gentle still, he has to be. “Do you want to wait?” Eames asks, and has to pause a minute for it to get through. “Yes or no.”

Arthur throws his head back, whole body heaving under Eames’ hands, grip on both himself and Eames gone white-knucked. “Yes, oh - ”

“Right, then. Arthur, stop now. Stop.” Arthur whines, keeps moving. He’s heavy. It hurts, Eames’ jeans clinging and sticky, damp denim too rough, he’s over-sensitized now. He grabs Arthur’s hands, because Arthur is bruising his shoulder and rubbing himself, helplessly egging himself on, and no, not allowed. Not now.

“Can’t,” Arthur says on a whine.

Eames holds both of Arthur’s wrists secure in one hand and loops the other arm around his hips, slowing him down. “Yes, you can. I know you can. Stop now.” He hauls Arthur’s hips back the critical two inches.

Arthur nearly screams. He fights reflexively, struggling against the hold on his wrists. He moves in abortive little thrusts, rutting against nothing. His breath comes in sobs. Eames holds on.

When he’s quieter, Eames lets his hands go, wraps a hand warm over the back of his neck, pulls him down and lets Arthur whine into his shoulder. Arthur fists his hands in Eames’ shirt, breath hitched and uneven, but he’s trying now. His body jerks in Eames’ hold, and later there will be deliberate semicircle toothmark bruises on Eames’ shoulder. Eames holds on while Arthur shudders, sighs, lets his shirt go and drops his hands, while his breath evens out, while he licks at the places he’s bitten, mouth wet. When he’s calmed, Eames runs a slow hand up and down his back.

“Sorry,” Arthur says.

“Shhh,” Eames says. “You did fine.” He’s still hard, he hasn’t come. The fighting is just how he is, and they have to get it out of the way every time.

Arthur breathes, and it’s only a little bit shaky. “Thank you, Mr. Eames.”

Eames’ jeans are truly disgusting. “Shhh,” he repeats, and starts shifting out from under Arthur. When he’s done, Arthur’s still kneeling on the armchair. Arthur twitches and clutches at him. “I’m coming right back,” Eames says. “Be my good boy and stay right here for me. Can you do that?”

Arthur nods shakily.

Eames kisses him for good measure. Then he wraps Arthur’s hands over the back of the armchar and presses them there. “Stay right here, how you are. Count backwards from two hundred for me, love?”

Arthur nods again. “Yes, Mr. Eames.”

“Count slowly. I’ll be back before you get to zero. Start now.”

“Yes,” Arthur says. “Two hundred, one hundred and ninety-nine,…”

Eames cleans up as fast as humanly possible, puts on his other pair of ratty Saturday-afternoon jeans, splashes some water on his face.

Arthur is just where he should be. “Forty-two, forty-one…”

“You may stop counting now,” Eames says, wrapping Arthur up from behind. He turns his face into Eames’ shoulder and holds on.

*

They watch part of a rugby game as the morning sunlight slides across the living room floor. Arthur’s on the floor with his head on Eames’ thigh and one hand wrapped loosely around Eames’ ankle. An odd position, but Arthur chose it, so. Eames leans back in his chair, puts his hand over the back of Arthur’s neck, rubs a little with his thumb sometimes. It seems to be enough.

Eames waits a long time, until Arthur’s eyes are half-closed and most of his weight is against his leg before he says, “Next time, bring an old pair of trousers you can spoil, darling, and I won’t make you stop.”

Arthur smiles beautifully, ducks his head to hide his blush. Eames can feel the pulse in his neck speed up as the thinks about it. “Yes, please,” he says.

Later, when the rugby ends, he’ll put Arthur’s shirt on him and take him down the block to the place that sells fancy, frothy coffees. He’ll order the cappuccinos that Arthur likes, and the almond scones that he can watch him pull apart with his fingers. Eames runs his hand up into the short hairs at the back of Arthur’s skull and wonders how long it will be before the rest of the illegal dreamshare community realizes the his and Arthur’s services come as a pair. Their job is like the gay underground scene sometimes: deceptively small.

They’ll cross that bridge when they come to it.

*  
*  
*

Three months, two horrid jobs, one insane engineer, and one bullet to the shoulder later (not that Eames is aware of what Arthur is up to or anything, not at all), Arthur shows up at Eames’ flat. The secret flat in Rome, the one not even Madeleine knows about. Arthur’s left arm is in a sling and he’s leaning, though he’d never admit it, against the doorframe, but, “I brought my ratty jeans,” he says.

“Right.” Eames opens the door wider. “Come in before you fall over. First, you are going to drink a lot of orange juice and then sleep for about eighteen hours and after that, we’ll do something involving those jeans.”

“Caveman isn’t a good look on you,” Arthur says, even as his fingers tighten around the edge of the sling, but he’s smiling.


End file.
